April 6, 2008

By Adam Lucas

SAN ANTONIO--I can't remember exactly when it was. It might have been when Cole Aldrich banged through for his second straight offensive rebound to make the unfathomable score Kansas 33, Carolina 10.

Or it might have been when the unbelievable score was Kansas 40, Carolina 12, and the Tar Heels were shooting 19 percent from the field.

Or maybe it was when the second half began, and the Tar Heels had a little life, and then Mario Chalmers made a wide-open layup within eight seconds to make the astonishing score Kansas 46, Carolina 27.

Yes, I think that was it. I think that's when I collapsed into my Alamodome seat and thought these exact words: I wish I wasn't here. I wish I didn't have to sit here and watch this. I wish I was at home, on the couch, or playing in the yard with the kids.

And I wish the Tar Heels weren't here, because this is miserable. They should not have to suffer through this. And what about me? I shouldn't, either. None of these people should. There are 43,718 people in the Alamodome and at least 6,000 of them are from North Carolina and right now we all think that this is absolutely wretched.

How wretched? Try this from Marcus Ginyard: "I knew something was wrong when we would foul them and then we'd huddle up and nobody would say anything. It would take four or five seconds before anyone spoke. Everyone just looked at each other like, `What the heck is going on?' It was weird. We were just looking around like, `Whoa.'

"We'd take the ball out of bounds and no one would know the call until two or three seconds before they handed us the ball. We were just kind of out there."

So that's why I was sitting there in my blue plastic seat trying to decide whether my annoying red seat cushion would do any good if I cracked it over my skull (answer: no).

Right about then, with everyone else standing up and me sitting down, was one of my first chances to actually look around. You spend all day waiting for the game to arrive and then when it finally does, you wish it was over. But if you wish it away too quickly, you miss some things.

The Final Four is too big. The Final Four is an overblown CBS money-making vehicle. The Final Four has too much red tape and a whole manual full of completely ridiculous rules.

And, well, the Final Four is kind of fantastic.

It's walking down the Riverwalk and hearing one side of the river shout, "Tar!" and the other respond, "Heels!" It's looking out the hotel window this morning at 9:30 a.m. and spotting two guys clad head-to-toe in Carolina blue tuxedos, complete with top hats, walking down the street...and it seeming perfectly normal. It's walking in the Alamodome for the first time on Saturday afternoon and realizing that 40,000 people are already crammed inside, including the diehards in section 330 (this seating chart doesn't do that section justice, but it's a start) and the entire Memphis cheering section with some kind of flashing blue light and they're chanting, "T-I-G-E-R-S, Tigers!" In fact, right now at 12:45 a.m., they're still chanting it outside on Houston Street. It might even be louder now than it was then.

The NCAA is trying its best to dampen Final Four enthusiasm with gigantic arenas that swallow sound. But still, when your team is playing you can't help but stand up because...well, because you just can't sit down.

It is absolutely no fun to end this way, to end with a performance that looks nothing like any other game the 2008 Tar Heels have played all season. But you know what? Not only is it not fun to end this way. It's just plain not fun to end.

The usual sounds of the Carolina locker room are laughter and cheering. At this time of year, it's usually filled with the sounds of players jumping around in the middle of the room celebrating another big win, and then with their high fives and shouts of congratulations.

When it's over, though--like after running into a terrific Kansas team that on this night was simply better--the sounds are sniffles. It is very difficult to walk into a room filled with college kids and hear sniffles. They have been crying and they are still crying. It's a little uncomfortable, because we don't see them this way. We see them joking and laughing. You're not sure whether to look them in the eye, pat them on the back, or look away. Sometimes, you do all three at the same time.

Over here, in the far corner, is Quentin Thomas. He has removed his Tar Heel jersey for the last time and he has just finished his circuit of the entire room, encouraging his teammates to use this loss--his last loss--as motivation for next season.

He is done. He'll never play another game for Carolina. Somehow, though, he still manages to put it into perspective.

"I have mixed emotions," he says. "I'm hurt and upset we're not going to play for the national championship on Monday. But at the same time, I have so much to be thankful for. I'm really happy for the success of this team and for how I've grown as a person over these last four years."

I don't know why a 22-year-old is so much more mature than the rest of us who spent the previous two hours slinging our remotes around the room. But I'm glad he is.

I understand that you think you know Roy Williams and you believe he should've called a timeout or made a different substitution or called a different play. You've heard him talk and you've listened to his radio show and maybe you even sent him a letter offering some friendly coaching advice.

But until you've seen him make the rounds in a losing NCAA Tournament locker room, hugging each player and leaning in close to offer one final word of encouragement, I don't know if you can really know him. When he finishes with a hug for Will Graves, the media storms in. Cameras click and tape recorders whir. Williams, still clad in his designer suit, steps into the shower for privacy, pulls out his handkerchief, and dabs his eyes.

He knows what we remember every March and April, that championships are absurdly difficult to win and that they're not guaranteed to anyone, anywhere. At this moment, drying his eyes alone in the shower, he wishes he was anywhere else.

The actual winning of a championship, the bracket navigation and foul shots and defense and rebounding, is extraordinarily difficult.

But trying to win one--the practices and the cheers and the team meals and the road trips--sure is fun. And tomorrow, even if he knows the outcome and would be forced to go through all the pain again, he'll wish he could do it all one more time.

Adam Lucas is the publisher of Tar Heel Monthly. He is also the author or co-author of four books on Carolina basketball.